It was Mr Jephson's usual custom to sally out after supper on Sunday evenings to smoke a pipe (or several pipes) with one of the other House-masters. On this particular evening he made for Robertson's, which was one of the four Houses on the opposite side of the School grounds. He could hardly have selected a better man to take his grievance to. Mr Robertson was a long, silent man with grizzled hair, and an eye that pierced like a gimlet. He had the enviable reputation of keeping the best order of any master in the School. He was also one of the most popular of the staff. This was all the more remarkable from the fact that he played no games.
To him came Mr Jephson, primed to bursting point with his grievance.
'Anything wrong, Jephson?' said Mr Robertson.
'Wrong? I should just think there was. Did you happen to be looking at the match yesterday, Robertson?'
Mr Robertson nodded.
'I always watch School matches. Good match. Norris missed a bad catch in the slips. He was asleep.'
Mr Jephson conceded the point. It was trivial.
'Yes,' he said, 'he should certainly have held it. But that's a mere detail. I want to talk about Gethryn. Do you know what he did yesterday? I never heard of such a thing in my life, never. Went off during the luncheon interval without a word, and never appeared again till lock-up. And now he refuses to offer any explanation whatever. I shall report the whole thing to Beckett. I told Gethryn so this morning.'
'I shouldn't,' said Mr Robertson; 'I really think I shouldn't. Beckett finds the ordinary duties of a Headmaster quite sufficient for his needs. This business is not in his province at all.'
'Not in his province? My dear sir, what is a headmaster for, if not to manage affairs of this sort?'